The Song Of Arthur - part 1

by S. Fowler Wright

Note: Foreword and Contents after introduction 'Arthur'.

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Arthur.

An ancient tale may later words retell,
Time's sure oblivion somewhat to delay;
Though in the shadows of a faithless day,
For one bright moment somewhat to repel
The meaner voices that themselves betray.

A tale of far dim days, vital with youth,
Of earliest Britain first as empire deemed.
No man may part the legend from the truth,
Nor say who lived, nor whom romance hath dreamed.
Through fluctuant clouds the enchanted dawn appears,
Red with the rose of honour: blind with tears.

A tale believed in earlier times; but say
No sun these heroes' deeds beheld, nor they
Lived, or lived only in the thoughts of men,
A dream that waking days reject. What then?
Shall ocean or the founded land remain?
Cloud-like they change. And who but God shall say,
Are dreams less real, are songs less worth, than they?
For this beyond the reach of doubt is sure:
The substance changes, and the dreams endure.

Illusion all? Yet those who heed shall hear
The noise of chargers, and the breaking spear,
And breathe the air of battle. They shall learn
Of deaths, and valours, and strong chastities;
Of violenced rights down-thrown to more return:
Of dungeons, and the weight of hopeless days:
Of wonders of waste ways where few men trod:
Of faiths child-eyed, that held the hand of God
As few men now: and of that sinless one
Who from her veins the wine of life spilled red
To save the worthless; and the vengeance done
By angered Heaven therefor.

                        Of wandering
Through winters, and the fresh delights of spring:
Of sportive loves in summer days and kind:
Of treasons of foul sorts that strike behind:
Of rapes and rescues. Of a dream that died
When Heaven to sinful man the Grail denied.

Of wide night-waters, shadowed deep and still,
Clothed in starless dark from hill to hill,
Where those who only at their wills we see,
Transient as earth, whose immortality
Is of the sun from which their lives derive,
More than ourselves and less, who fail or thrive
As the sun's system thrive or fail; for they
The bounded laws of Nature's life obey,
Nor any further life is theirs to be.

Of spells and charms a long-dead learning knew:
Of fastings, and the veil of flesh worn thin:
Of Hell's deep snares, and those who rode therethrough:
Of sin, and of the bitter doles of sin,
Avoidless, till the toll of life was past,
And only at God's feet was peace at last.

II.

Swords reap: death garners. Races fail and die;
Or harbour in close hills to strife renew.
But still the light of Britain lifts more high
As tribe with tribe their strengths unite, and through
The healing of the reconciling years,
From these, than any of these, a hardier race
Is born of Britain and the sea's embrace,
To raise through transient mists a deathless star.
Till came at last the later Lancelot, he
The thunder of whose guns at Trafalgar
Should echo freedom to the utmost sea.

And we who now, beneath an equal sky,
In freedom's twilight, watch that greatness die,
By envious voices to its end misled:
A fallen hope behind, a doubt ahead,
Who more than life have loved that loveliest star,
May we not backward gaze to whence it sprung,
And gain some impulse of their light from far
Dream-dawns of other days, when life was young?

Contents

Chapter	Title	'Page'	Chapter.
			Scenes from the
Volume 1			Morte d'Arthur.
	Arthur	1
	Foreword	3
I	Merlin	5
II	Uther & Igraine	14	1
III	Arthur	28
IV	Balyn	69
V	The Three Quests	111
VI	Morgan Le Fey	147
VII	The Three Damsels	181	3,4
Volume 2
VIII	The Riding Of Lancelot	213	10
IX	Tristram	268	5,6
X	Brewnor	345
XI	Tristram And Iseult	368	7
XII	Palomides	432	8
Volume 3
XIII	Gareth & Lionore	511	2
XIV	Alisander	588	9
XV	Joyous Garde	623	12
Volume 4
XVI	Elaine Of Carbonac	706	13
XVII	The Challenge Of The Grail	754	11,17
XVIII	The Seeking Of The Grail	786	14,15
XIX	The Vision Of The Grail	812	16,18,19
XX	Elaine Of Astolat	827
XXI	The Queen's Supper	850
XXII	Meliagraunt	864
XIII	Lancelot And The Queen	890
XXIV	The Death Of Arthur	925

Foreword

        As mentioned, in Brian Stableford's synopsis of Sydney Fowler Wright's literary achievements, this is his life's work.
        S. FW worked on this new rendering, of the Arthurian Legends in verse, for over 30 years; only to have, the only, nearly completed manuscript destroyed - along with his Fetter Lane offices and much else of importance - by a bomb in May 1941. Despite his advanced years (67) - and being bombed out of home twice - he largely re-wrote the 332,500 words - stopping only in 1956 on his 82nd birthday.

        The 'Literary notes' give a flavour of his frustrations; and one insignificant dramatic loss in what was so much carnage. The War Damage Commission paid for his smaller losses but refused compensation for this work - needed to finance the re-writing - after an Oxford professor described it as 'a work of art'. As such it was beyond their scope. Being required to be secured in government vault... for protection.
        S. FW's youngest son Nigel (1932-1987) had read the original, and having lived through part of its creation, it's destruction (and the attempts to re-write) was of the opinion that the 're-write' did not achieve the original greatness through its entire length. S.FW. ran out of time. It was Nigel's hope to use his understanding of its proper construction to prepare the work for publication when he retired. The available manuscripts being damaged, with sections missing and areas with which S.FW. was clearly unhappy. Particularly in vol. 4. Sadly this was not to be.

        I have published the work in the hope that it will inspire others - and in the immensity of time the right person to re-work the original magic.

        I have marked chapters that incorporate the sections from his 1919 work 'Scenes From The Morte d'Arthur' accordingly. 'The Riding of Lancelot' being self-evident.
        Slight differences exist between versions - mostly 'linking lines' - this version is the 'Song of Arthur'.

        His publication 'The Ballad of Elaine' is a short alternative version of 'Elaine of Astolat' (Chap. XVI). This was published in The Empire Poetry League's subscription Quarterly 'Poetry' July 1921 edition as 'Elaine and Lancelot'.
        'Poetry' 1918-1931 (From Vol 8. No. 72 (June 1925) re-titled 'Poetry & The Play' - was also edited by S.FW from Vol. 3. No. 6. Aug. 1920 (as Alan Seymour) - also published other sections and articles by S.FW. on 'Arthur'.

A. Fowler-Wright

Merlin.

The tale of Merlin. Virgin-born was he,
And fiend-engendered. These the proofs men tell.

What time the lord of Life to deepest Hell
Sought the world's pain, and issuing upward bore
Lost souls to God, a sharp confusion fell
On fiends whose boast to Heaven had been before
That none they seized from out their fatal door
Came ever, that He their spoil should wrest away.
Amazed with portent of their loss were they,
And wroth at loosing of their taken prey,
And fearful all of some dark-shadowing end.

Then spake the master-fiend of that foul crew,
Whose counsels might with all but God contend.
He thought with subtler craft to all fordo
The craft of Heaven.

                "Behold," he said, "ye see
What power belongs this Spirit of mortal birth!
Own we the leigance of the tribes of Earth,
Or seek they God? Shall Heaven prevent that we
A maiden fitted to our use shall bend?
Shall we not raise such seed as well may be
More potent in its growth our cause to friend
Than this new foe to thwart us? Heed ye me.
Cast fears aside. Recall the joys we had
When earlier for the souls of men we fought
In God's defeat. Shall not this victory be
Repeated, and advance a hope more glad
Of Earth reconquered, our assured resort?"

He gained of feebler fiends deserved acclaim;
And missioned thus to Middle Earth he came,
And spent long years of search, and lastly found
A maiden fit to bear immortal birth.
There was no fairer stepped on earthly ground:
No flower more flawless from the soil of Earth
Sprang ever. But clean in all her thoughts was she,
And pure of heart as mortal maid shall be.

Now was his thought for but one transient hour
To draw her separate from the shielding power
Invincible of Heaven. For well knew he
Who held on God should all his wiles withstand;
And hence her siege with deep conceits he planned.

Her father first, with loss of worldly store
He vexed. A murrian seized his kine. The more
Device to save his lessening herds he sought,
The more beyond remede the plaguing grew.

At last in his wide fields were left him naught
But such brood-mares of price, and these but few,
As most he valued past compare; for he,
Beyond the hills, and to the northland sea,
Was famed for coursers that his strain had bred.

One morn their came a herdsman: "Lord, are dead
Of some strange plague the whole thou hadst." Thereat
Of all but wrath his angered heart forgat:
"Now may the fiend who rules this world," he said,
"Take all he will."

                Released in this permit
To greater power, the fiend who purposed it
Wrought with more wrong his weakened faith to test.
Next morn his heir and only son was found
Slain in the night. Dark stains the white throat round
Of strangling fingers scorching where they pressed
Revealed his death.

                His father gazed. Of naught
Again he spake. But of his hand he sought
And found his end.

                Two sisters yet remained
Whom well she loved, before the fiend had gained
His goal to reive her of her earthly kin.
To these he cast the snare of carnal sin
In different guise their moods to lure, and one
Weak-yielding to a love misgiven, was led
By that delude a downward path to tread
That in the hues of heaven its marshes hid.
And when the purpose of his guile was won,
In love's defeat her lover faithless fled.
But she was plainly of the sin she did
Convict; for so the subtle fiend had planned.

There was an evil custom of that land
That maidens once who in that sort had sinned
(Except that nobler souded, or loftier kinned
Their deaths they chose), themselves they then must give
To all who would. By such foul use to live,
No heart was hers. Nor surely urged her so
The Elders who her falling judged, for though
Her fault they might not by their laws forgive,
They might not by their ready choice agree
A damsel of her father's race to see
Soiled in the shameful traffic of the mart,
But slew her darkly in a place apart
That no man knew.

                The fiend, rejoiced, perceived,
As thus with loss on loss her heart he grieved,
That round his prey a closing snare he drew.
As some strong lioness toward the secret snare
The wary beaters drive, till all unware
Plunged in the pit the treacherous branches through;
Or more as wolves divide a labouring doe
Separate from out the antlered herd, that so
Perforde she further from her safety flies,
Till lonely to the leaping fangs she dies.

So working still to reach his worst intent,
A temptress to the second sister sent
This fiend of hell. A crone so base was she
That hard she wrought all cleaner minds to see
Sunk in like slough to her own infamy.

"Surely," she said, "they waste their nights in vain
The while in men's strong arms they have not lain,
Nor love's dear shame and dear surrender know."

And answered her the maiden: "Surely so
You tempted, and my sister died thereby."

To which the crone gave answer: "Nay, not I;
But wiser counsel from my lips had been
To save her, though the tender fault were seen,
From that strait grave and cold, for fresh delights,
And dalliance of warm days and warmer nights."

The maiden to her chamber passed, and there
Shook from her shoulders loose her pride of hair,
Gazed on her slender body white and bare,
And those smooth limbs that God had made so fair
For love's delight, and felt quick pulses stir
Of lewd desire. So that fiend wrought in her.

Thereat she sought the temptress out anew.
"Thinkst thou," she asked, "I might so stoop, and then
Choose mine own pleasure in desire of men?"

"You are so fair," she said, "that all but few
Would yield thee of their wealth thy will to do."

Then went she forth in fameless ways, and left
Her sister lone in that doomed house, bereft
Of kin or comrade for the days to be.

Thus neared the fiend his purposed hour, but she
Turned Godward in her need, and sought for aid
A holy hermit, Blaise, and him she prayed
For counsel: "All my house is lost," she said,
"And fear is mine."

                He answered: "Rest thy dread
On Heaven, for in sure faith is fear's defeat.
Who lean on Christ, High God, for his Son's sake,
Shall not forsake them, save they first forsake,
Their leigance due."

                Her steps returned to meet
Whom least she thought about her gates, for there,
With ribald jests and mocking guise to greet
Her quieter mien, inflamed of lust and wine,
Was concourse of her sister's sort, and she
Not backward of them.

                        With no ruth to see
Whom once she loved so lost from virtues fair,
But wroth that thus they round her gates should bide,
She spoke with scorn she had no heart to hide:
"Oh, sister, shameless! In such shame as thine
What shame contains? Or in thy wasted pride
Wouldst hope to draw me down in like descent
To these and thee?"

                So chiding, wroth and proud,
She parted. Scorn such fall that Heaven allowed
Diseased her mind.

                Of this repenting naught,
Her door she barred, her narrow couch she sought.
Neither she bent for boon of God her knee,
Nor crossed her with the Sacred Sign, nor plea
To Mary piteous made to hold her free
From demons that the Godless dark affright.

Without, the moon set, and the clouding night
Cowered silent, shrinking from the fear to be.
On the doomed roof, conceived of deepest hell,
A shadow blacker than the midnight fell.

With dawn she rose, her door unbarred, and sought
With sightless-seeming eyes the hermit's cell,
Such tale of marvel and fear to tell
As nothing from his antique lore had taught.
"Was no man came," she said, "was parted none.
There was none with me, nay, by God His Son;
Yet deep I knew my maiden days were done."

The doubtful hermit weighed her tale. He knew
Her simple days. Her life, serene and true,
Pled for her.... But wilder tale should no man hear,
Nor such, he thought, should any credence win,
Devised of shame to shield a likelier sin.

"Daughter," he said, "if aid of Heaven you seek,
Or counsel at most need from mortal weak
To cleanse your soul from guilt, or lift your fear
(The portent of your sister's doom so near),
How hope you aught from me or Heaven the while
You seek to hide your deeds in cloaking guile?"

"God's dole!" She said, "I tell you all I may.
There are no words in mortal speech to say
The more I knew. Than should such night return
I would my flesh the leaping flame should burn.
Yea, by God's death!"

                        "Daughter," the holy man
Replied, "such marvel since our times began
Hath no man heard. If I can scarce believe,
Who know thee, shall the colder world receive
Thy tale for truth? Thy stricken house to grieve
Strange powers are loose. Yet this thing hold thou sure:
Rest thou thy heart on Heaven, devout and pure,
Though seemeth to man's eyes that fiends prevail,
God's justice at the last shall weight the scale.
Hence with sure faith to God thy life submit.
There is no fear but He shall vanquish it:
No dole but shall His larger grace repay."

Then entering in, he wrote with careful skill
The wondrous tale he heard, that whoso will
May read it yet. 'If truth,' he thought, 'she tell,
And monstrous wrong a monstrous birth portend,
This writ may aid her at the later day
When ginned by that stern law her faults offend
Death must be hers, excepting that God indwell,
A wondrous birth to bring; or demon spell
That wrought this evil should her doom delay.'

II.

Now passed the months: the colder winds prevailed:
The dawns delayed, and summer left the land.
Apparent cause her virgin fame assailed.
The grey morn rose that saw her guiltless stand
For condemnation; or such tale to plead
As few men might for aught but mockery heed.

Yet for her life's defence that hermit came
Her tale to urge; and by his reverend age,
And clean repute, and temperate speech and sage,
And pleadings in the Holy Name they knew,
Some respite from remedeless doom to claim,
A hearing won. But when he ceased, anew
Her tale with ribald scoff and scathing jest
That audience, loud in murmuring, mocked: suppressed
Scarce by the graver Elders there.

                        But then,
A tale beyond the common ways of men
By every scale of patient proof to test
Was counsel called, and long-writ books were brought
The wisdom of the dead years to reap; but naught
Was in them dealing of such wonders met.
And deeming at the last much guilt to let
Were such defence allowed, this doom they read;
That lest clean life of sinless soul be shed
Live should she, captive in strong hold immured;
Till born her babe, and nursed to life assured,
When fire should cleanse her from her shameful wrong.

They closed her in a battered tower and strong,
High-built; and but one outer stairway wound
In giddy curve the steep slope wall around.
And here contained, her babe was born, and here
Grew with its strengthening days the closer fear
Of her unmeet, escapeless doom more near.

And when the gorse upon the moors was gold,
And kingcups in the marshier ways, and all
That her wide prospect showed, in verdure gay
Its summer thrall allowed, at evenfall
There came such word to where she watched as told
Her doomday nigh; and bending, while it lay
Against her heart, that sireless babe above,
Who paid her dole and death for life and love,
"Oh, babe, dear babe," she said, "I dred me sore
The cruel flame to feel, but weep I more
To leave thee shameful to a world unkind."

And in man's speech the babe gave answer clear:
"Oh, mother, from thy heart cast forth thy fear.
There is no fire shall reach thee while I live."

And she, abashed thereat: "Now God forgive
If sin be here, as marvel here I find
Beyond aught else," and called the beldames twain
Who service there and bitter guard combined.

They came, and many an eager wile they wrought
To tempt its speech, but gat they answer naught:
It was mere babe in all response thereto.

III.

Again the Hall of Judgement. Dark again
The brows of those who judged her bent to see
The maiden garb, the babe on arm, as she
Condemned before, to hear her doom was brought.

A ruler in their chiefest place who sate
Faint-stirred of ruth her deadly plight to view.
Adjured her yet once more: "Dost urge thou naught
In more excuse, or own - not yet too late -
Thy frailty, and the stubborn pride subdue
Thy one release that barriers?"

                        "Nay," she said,
"For sins I nothing wit, God's offcast I.
Do thou thy will."

                He answered: "Think ye well.
The fault is plain. The doom is dire. Submit
The lighter choice to take. Confess the wrong.
Live mayst thou yet."

                She answered: "Well I know
That deathward from this bitter world I go.
Unmercied, hopeless of one friend's belief.
Yet not for gain of life or change of grief
Will take I refuge in that shameful lie.
But past ye all to God His throne I cry
For His high justice when this dole is through."

Then in the stillness when she ceased - a fear
To that thronged court - in ready speech and clear
From her young babe there came a bold reply:
"Oh, fools! Who hear plain truth, and pass it by.
Think ye the charge of wanton use ye bring
Had falsehood countered with no likelier lie?
Or lewdness had your choice refused? Held fit
In judgement on the doubtful cause to sit,
Condemn ye for a proofless doubt?... I spring
From womb of one no mortal chose, but he
Who holds to all thy race arch-enmity,
Higher than your first beyond compare, I wist.
Sired by the Eternal God's antagonist,
More wise at birth in mortal lores am I
Than those of hoary eld who latest die.

"Begot was I to work your race more wrong
Than erst hath been; yet that the life was pure
Of her who should to life my soul innure,
And that she sought God for me night and day
While gaining life beneath her heart I lay,
This choice of Him was given: that though to me
The wisdom of my demon sire belongs,
And his far-purposed thought, my soul is free
To serve him, or to God for larger gain
To Heavenward turn.

                "Now harken. If she die
Guiltless, approve it Hell or Heaven, will I
On all who silent here consent her wrong
So deal, that they for lagging death too long
Shall call in vain; or in more dreadful woes
Shall work like end through sharper pangs for those
They dearest hold. I will such vengeance take
As this ill custom from your laws shall break,
And cleanse the land for ever."

                        While he spake
Was silence, and some space beyond, until
That ruler who had judgement given before
Boldly sustained the cloak of rule he wore.

"You claim high wisdom, yet your words confess
You were conceived in worse than foolishness,
And so confute thee in themselves. No ill
We seek to show, a cruel fruit to bear.
Our justice oft for surer proof delays;
Or halts, the guiltless from its sword to spare,
As here is shown, or not thy birth had been.
But not for threats its measured pace it stays;
Nor claim of doubt, when such the doubt is seen
As springs from sorcerous crafts, or arts unclean."

To this the babe gave answer: "Say ye so?...
Whose mother risking her soul's price doth go
The while ye speak, the more than mine hath done
For this thing ever."

                To this the judge, though wroth
Such monstrous charge to meet, with wont control
Tempering his speech: "This word hath saved her whole
For whom ye plead, or cast you equalled forth
In common flame to die. Not guiltier she
Than is thy base concept, unless that thou
Canst stablish that thou sayest."

                        The babe replied:
"Well can I prove my word, and more beside.
And nearlier to thee than I spake before,
Were smaller audience held. Or wilt thou more
In open hall be said? I would not shame
Beyond good need thy fair repute, but I
A certain proof will tell, with all men by,
Or solely to thyself; and thou shalt name
Or doom or freedom in thy just review,
While I contest no more."

                        The judge replied,
Abashed and fallen from his former pride:
"Let space be given," and all men else withdrew.

Then said the babe: "Your secret thoughts I show.
A high descent and clean you think you know.
You think a late-dead sire you mourn. Not so;
Begotten of one you hold your direst foe
Your life began. And while that here you bide,
In your proud towers, the rapid Rhone beside,
Your mother's lust a dearer bond renews
Than with your father's death she learnt to lose.

"All this your short return may seek and see,
To thwart at once and prove it, since that he
You shall not meet, who ere you reach shall die,
Drowned in the flood - to meet his death through thee,
Though no man's hand against his life be high."

"Babe," said the judge, "if these strange words be true,
Her forfeit life is yours. If false you lie,
Then justly in a common doom you die;
As trust I yet no sadder dole to view."

The court recalled, he bade them closely hold
Mother and child alike their fate to bide.
"For secret and for certain proof I ride,
Of which, if justice need, shall more be told;
Or else, convict of false defence, they die;
Cast in a pit themselves have digged thereby.
Mure them the while I leave in keeping strong.
Grant them no boon: but do their lives no wrong."

Then with a slender troop, in haste arrayed,
Hard journey to his father's towers he made,
To prove a monstrous tale or false or true.
Swiftly he rode, but swifter rumour flew
To her who, lately from a life perverse
Released by death, had prudence cast aside,
And with more boldness than an eager bride,
Had called her paramour: "My lord is dead.
My son is absent for sure weeks," she said,
"Come to me," and he came. But different now
Her fearful words: "My son, I know not how,
Hath surely learned; for all he leaves, and fast
Hither he urges his blown steeds." And he,
Her craven lover, rose in haste to flee,
Stung with sharp fear. Across his urgent way
A ford engorged with summer rains there lay.
Brimmed to the brinks from bank to bank it ran,
But blindly plunged he in, and horse and man,
Swept downward, died.

                        His son, who not till then
Had guessed him father, following, found him caught
In reeds from which a sinking stream withdrew.
Silent he backward rode in sombre thought:
'Not by my hand his death, whose death was due.
Well is it that he died, and well that I
Am guiltless, surely though he died through me...
How should that babe so well that end foresee,
Which was not in clear course of destiny,
But of his own contrive?... If fiend he be,
Or angel, at his door no charge is laid;
And she hath warrant for her tale... My word
Is pledged moreover... If with Blaise they bide,
He will fair guidance and close care provide,
By which should right be proved, or wrong be stayed.'

So by his court's decree this rule was made,
And she who once from God's protection erred,
And he who first her tale of wonder heard
And did not with rejecting words condemn,
Nurtured the child with common aim to draw
Its fiend-bred thoughts to God's auguster law,
And were not impotent thereto. With them
The child in learning and in wisdom grew,
Till Hell's thwart fiend the scourge of Heaven anew
Felt in defeat. For, come to man's degree,
His arts against the tides of heathenry
That surged from Northward round the Christian pale,
He practised long, and with a demon's skill,
Subtle of devious wiles, but clean of will,
Armed with such powers as are not wont to fail.

Uther And Igraine.

The western gate of Camelot was barred.
Storm and wild night across the city lay,
When down the paving of the middle way
A clang of coming hooves aroused the guard;
For under that dark cloak of night and rain
Fled from the king, Duke Gorlois and Igraine.

Soon at the ward the reined-in chargers steamed:
The penselled lances rose into the night:
While on wet mail the warders' torches gleamed,
And sign and counter-sign were changed aright.
Yet had the warders paused - a band it seemed
Starkly arrayed for foray or for flight -
But when the shield of that great lord they knew
Who shortly with their king was reconciled,
Without demur the grating bars withdrew,
And forth he rode toward the outer wild.

But when from the grey walls the grey dawn showed
A land wind-beaten and abashed with rain,
Pierced by the straight blade of the Roman road,
The fear-born flight of Gorlois and Igraine
Aroused the royal towers, and prince and lord
Were called in haste to Uther's council board.

"Lords," spake the king, "ye know that Gorlois long
Our Devon border vexed with raid and wrong,
Before our strengthened realm such front could show
As made ourselves at last the deadlier foe:
That brought of no true faith, but urged of fear
He came, and terms of peace accorded here;
And yestermorn, his weaker rule to save,
Reluctant to our throne allegiance gave.
Now, wrothed at eve because I sought to gain
The moment's favour of the fair Igraine,
To more deride me, secretly and late,
Fled all his household by the western gate.
Doubtless he plots to range his subject powers
Beneath the shelter of Tintagel towers;
Where he may linger, like a wolf in wait,
His time to bide, that haply, soon or late,
When Northern raiders on our borders press,
The league of Cornwall and of Lyonesse
May lightly pierce an unprotected side.
Now, lords, such menace should we break or bide?
Should ordered war, or swift pursuit be tried?"

So Uther spake; and answered he who wrought
A realm from out the lawless north; alike
Cunning his time to wait, and swift to strike,
The fair-haired Lot of Lothian. Only he
Spake out, as king to king, direct and free.

"Lord king," he said, "thou art accounted wise.
But what is wisdom to a woman's eyes!
At yester noon our counsel brought accord
Between thy kingdom and this rebel lord;
And now - a foolish word, a woman's frown,
And all our work of peace is broken down.
Yet mayst thou practice to attain thine end,
To draw from Gorlois every doubtful friend,
And gather all thy lieges to thy side. . .
Ere with himself his strength his heart debate,
And cooler wisdom on his fury wait,
Hard bid thy heralds to Tintagel ride,
And straitly charge him, by allegiance sworn,
He here attend thee on the Easter morn.
And surely as thy call he shall decline,
His is the oath forsworn, the wrong is thine.

"Then should Pendragon sheathe an idle sword
The while a vassel prince defies his lord?
How if with such a tale the minstrel went
Wandering among the trustless tribes of Trent?
If Gorlois should so lightly loose the cord,
How should we bind Northumbria's hostile horde?
Such cause of quarrel fastens all thy friends,
Whose safety on thy settled throne depends.
When on his lands thy gathered power appears
Shall Gorlois face the might of all thy spears?
Shall any height of tower or depth of vault
Immune him sheltered from thy strong assault?
Or when the flames of strongholds stormed arise
Are not the women still the victor's prize?"

II

While sowed the craft of Lot such seed as grew
To fruit of deaths untaled, and flowered anew
A glory lifted for a world to view,
Informed of births and fames which had not been
Had Uther not Igraine in longing seen,
Or counsel failed, the angered Gorlois, he
Whom hope of equal peace to Uther's court
Had seven days since the king's safe-conduct brought,
Toward his eyrie by the western sea,
Rode gale-swept moor and sheltered combe, until
No more the faltering steed the rider's will
Controlled; such haste had Gorlois' wrath: such fear
Beat in Igraine the loud pursuit to hear.

Short space they drew perforce reluctant rein,
And then with night the windy moors again
They rode, though scarce to guide their path availed
The moon's white shield in drifting vapour veiled.
Nor willing pause was theirs until they saw
Those age-old towers to any wave of war
Found virgin: through the drifting cloud they rose,
Where on sheer cliff the might of ocean throws
Its weight in vain. And here, in short secure
They dwelt, and treaties all and threats denied,
Till Uther launched his war.

                        To best endure
The heavier ranks, and in good heart abide
A sheltered storm, and most to hold Igraine,
That though the king might gain he should not gain
His first desire, had Gorlois warded strong
Tintagel's high sea-towers, where memory-long
Had foemen stormed in vain; and fortified
The Castle Terribil, ten rough miles away,
That hard across the invader's pathway lay.
Both holds he garnished with great store, to stay
The long-drawn months of war; and in the first
Igraine he placed, that there, though came the worst
To those wide towers that first assault must dure,
Still might she bide in scatheless height secure.

Wide-walled was Terribil, on the broken plain,
And many-gated. Built that leaguering foe,
Whose force, thin-stretched should all its girth contain,
No rest from fear of issuing ranks might know
From any of all its gates, their siege to break
Ere aid might reach; or swift blood-tribute take,
And waiting port regain; and underground
Were secret ways, that past the widest bound
Of girding hosts led free.

                        Pendragon's power
Came with the lengthening days. On gate and tower
Flung battle beat. The King's desire to gain
Were venturous deeds emprised, and strong men slain
On either part. The urged assault in vain
Attempted walls too high, and issuing through
Their opened gates, the strong defenders slew
Disheartened foes.

        The long weeks passed, and flew,
From those high walls, defiant of all Logre,
The flag which long had ruled from sea to sea
The narrowing lands. The vain assaults were ceased.
The rigour of the straitening lines increased
All paths to bar, that starving days should tame
A pride too high. At this constraint there came
A word that mocked from Gorlois to the king.
"To those lean dogs," he wrote, "who round my gate
For meat not theirs in restless hunger wait,
The word of Gorlois: Here, with meats to spare,
Which they may noway take who noway dare,
Who wills may learn my mercy: ask and share."

But Uther, while the long siege stayed, and while,
Or meeting force with force, or guile with guile,
His foe yet held him from his sighted prey,
To sickness fell. And all the windless day,
While drowsed the camp, and summer parched the land,
And danced the air above the glaring sand,
Fevered with thwarted hope and wrath he lay,
Till peaceless night. From that diseaseful bed
His captains held: his serfs had gladlier fled.

A noble knight, Sir Ulfius named, whom most
The thwarted king would heed of all his host,
Approached, and spake: "Lord king, though gaunt and weak
Of sickness here ye lie, no leech ye seek,
Nor food ye will, nor this vain sieging break
Of garnished towers whose strength we may not take
Ere winter force our more contemned retreat;
So wilt thou thus thy larger ends defeat,
Distress thy friends, thy cold allies estrange,
To past its use a futile raid prolong.
What helps it Gorlois' peace that towers too strong
For all assault he holds, and furnished well?
Might we not through his land in wasting range
From sea to sea a locust host? How long
Would then content his heart that close confine
When rumours of some fresh despoil should tell
As frequent as the following days? But here,
With naught of honour gained thy ranks to cheer,
Base treasons stir, and nobler motions pine."

"Good friend," the king made answer, "might ye know
My grief, thy doubts were done. Behold, I show
A weakness for thy scorning bare. Not storm
Of these strong towers, not gain of this wide land,
Not Gorlois' life I seek, except that so
Igraine were mine thereby; and her to win
There is nor hazard of loss, nor mortal sin,
Nor price, nor toil, that shall mine end withstand;
And therefore, while these stubborn walls endure,
No food can comfort, and no leech can cure."

"Lord king," he said, "when tides that strength shall fail,
Oft at the loss shall cunning wile avail;
And since that here thy purpose halts delayed,
Some deeper counsel than thine own to aid
Were well besought. Bethink ye Merlin; he
Whose wisdom in thy service works, would free
This longing from thy heart, or gain it thee
At short device."

        "Who bringeth," said the king,
"Mage Merlin here, may ask for guerdoning
His heart's most hope, and gain it."

                        "That will I,
And in short space, except that first I die;
Seeking him even where, his feared retreat,
At eve and morn the sounding waters meet."

III.

Now when three days had Ulfius ridden, and wide
Had bent his path from Severn's narrowing side,
And the great woods were round him, and the night
Was closing, seemed it to his doubtful sight
Approached him through the boughs a minstrel lad,
In velvet prankt; and then, but meanlier clad,
Likelier he seemed an aged thrall, that wore
The badge of servitude, and groaning bore
A faggot piled. The startled charger swerved,
That scarce stern word and tightened reining served
To hold him to the path. With nearer view,
In amice garbed, the sage he sought he knew.

"Ulfius," he said, "I rede the quest ye ride.
Return at hastened pace to Uther's side;
For soon I follow." Ere Ulfius, gazing there,
Had shaped reply, the shadowed path was bare.

But when returned in Uther's tent he stood,
And told the vision of the darkened wood,
Ere the king's doubt in wrathful words had way,
Was Merlin there. And when the couch he neared,
And the wide tent of all men else was cleared:
"Oh, Merlin," spake the king, "at greater need
I called thee never, though long the call delayed;
And hope I fairly of this wondrous speed
That thou wilt cure the grief I need not say."

Answered the sage: "To seek my sooner aid,
Unurged of any, thy thought had turned, but thou
Wast dred to hear an evil purpose weighed
In speech of one that not thy fear should hold
From ruder telling than thy wraths allow.
Yet, as in Heaven the wondrous weird is writ
Nor but High God can turn or alter it,
That gives thy land a coming dawn of gold,
Which else would pass thy power to work - let be
The boon I will (thy greater gain) and ye,
Yea, even tonight, and if thou let me deal,
The arms ye seek in willing love shalt feel
About thee; not reluctant or constrained,
Which all thine utmost power had noway gained."

Then Uther sware upon the Cross Divine,
By the Shed Blood, and by the Sacred Sign,
If fainly to his arms she came, and he
Begat a child upon her, such babe should be
At Merlin's will.

                That night, with Ulfius, he
Moving at Merlin's word most secretly,
Left the stilled camp. "Forget not momently,"
So charged the sage, "we be not whom we be.
But thou, the king, art Gorlois' self, and we
Are knights of Gorlois. So shall all men see
Our own belief."

        And feigning thus, they rode
To where Tintagel's strong integrity
Rose massed and black against their upward way.
As these dark walls they gained, extending far,
Through the west heaven there trailed a splendid star,
With widening skirts of fire. Was glad to see
The sage such portent of high destiny
As here he deemed.

                Beneath the barbican
The password Merlin gave. The sentinel
Allowed them who they were. The drawbridge fell
- The fate of nations with it - A quick word ran
To where Igraine her lonely rest had sought;
And she received him as her lord she ought,
Adventured through the perilous night to find
Some space from narrowing woes a kind resort.
And if by Merlin's art, or darkness blind
And silence guiled, who knoweth? But ere the morn
Conceived, of that strange night a babe was born
Whose fame a thousand years should more extend,
Uplifted till the tale of fame shall end.

Ere light returned, at Merlin's urgent hest,
Had Uther risen, and passed again unguessed
Beyond those hostile walls. But as they gained
The clearer way, from out the dawn there came,
With hooves that struck the flying flint to flame,
A courier. Scarce his trembling steed, back-reined,
The narrow edge sustained. "Make path," he cried,
"I stand for none, The courier-sign ye see."

But Merlin: "Speak what news of haste and fear
Ye bear, that reckless thus the path ye ride."

"I bring the news of Gorlois' death," said he,
And smote his steed to further speed, and passed.

For Gorlois of that moonless night and clear
Avail had sought. Within his mind he cast
With one fierce onset on a sleeping host
His foes to break. His utmost force he led
In cautioned silence forth; and thus that most
Confounding panic in their lines should spread,
He clave their leaguer through, and backward bent
In swift reverse, their startled rear to take
Unware. In this design his swift outbreak
Obtained. To noise of nearing strife they wake,
And terrored steeds that fly the burning tent.
Astonied, blinded, foolish path they fled,
Where Gorlois raged. Across his deathful way
Icenia's spears and Garlot's bowmen lay;
And these he broke.

                But camping more away,
Roused were the iron-ruled ranks of Lot. Not here
To panic, or the hastened pulse of fear,
They waked; but gathering in close ranks, the while
The impatient and reiterant trumpets shrilled
Their urgent calls of war, full fast arrayed,
His waiting spears their wary lord obeyed,
Leash-strained. But that stark-hearted king, and skilled
In warlike lore, and many a fruitful guile,
His rescue paused, until, enforced the more
By Urience and the lighter ranks of Gore,
Out through the night he moved their joined array,
And in like coin a deadly craft to pay,
On Gorlois' rear his doubled force he flung.

Thus was the strife. While Gorlois overbore
Icenia, and their wounded remnant fled,
The more advanced the exultant van, the more
His rear, indriven by Lot, behind him bled;
And Gorlois, hearing, forced a backward way,
The slaughter of that trodden rear to stay.

As some broad oak the tender copse among
He showed. A huge twice-bladed axe he swung.
Shrank from its sweep his boldest foes, but they,
As waiting dogs, that hold the boar at bay,
Or wolves that shrink to leap the antlered prey,
Half ringed him round. A long Icenian spear,
Cast from the cumbered hand of flight, there lay
On that strewn ground where strife had passed before.
This spear a Lothian warrior raised and flung,
Low-aimed, at Gorlois' feet. Beneath his knee
A laming wound it gave. He stooped; he rose
Staggering; to left, to right, his closing foes
Apart he hurled. Though naught but these he saw,
In hope the rush of rescuing friends to hear,
Above the multitudinous sounds of war,
Rejecting fate, his lifted warcry rang.
Hewing on the fierce waves of that whelming sea,
Vain deaths he gave, but not for these the less
The friendlier cries recede, the deeper press
Engulfs him ever, beyond relieve, that he
Whose might so long had Uther's might defied,
Unbent of valour and untamed of pride,
Of countless wounds, of no man slain he died.

IV

They were good knights of Gorlois, proven men
Alike in counsel and the smiting fray,
To whom the guarding of Igraine he gave.
Not surely lightlier to her cause they clave
That in the castle chantry cold he lay,
Their lord no more. Yet cooler words had way
Than could with Gorlois live have been, and when,
By truce agreed, less desperate hope they saw
Then offering from the hard appeal of war
Their doubtful hearts allowed, full glad were they.

For freedom gave the king, at Merlin's word,
That chosen lords of either part conferred
A common peace to find, and truth was said,
That were Igraine to Uther's kingdom wed,
Rest should both lands from weary strifes, that sore
Had barrened many a weary year before
From fair increase of life, and natural store.

This thought, of Ulfius fostered, grew. The king
Heard, and was glad. A bargained suit they bring
To one who granted with blithe heart - and she?
This for her land she did. Of what she thought
Was no man knew. Above the recent grave
Of whom she loved, to whom in life she clave,
To his most foe her troth and hand she gave;
And her three daughters, in the same accord,
The brides of Uther's strong allies were plight.

Her first, Elaine, was given to Garlot's lord.
The next, Morgause, whose tawny hair, alight
With changing fire, in many a lauding lay
Had minstrels to the wilds of Lothian sung,
Best loved and fairest of those sisters three,
But doomed for those whom most she loved to be
A deathly snare, was chosen of Lot.

                        Too young
For bridal then, to Urience, lord of Gore,
Was Morgan, called in after years Le Fey,
Affianced. In sheltering nunnery walls awhile
He left her, where, through many a dreaming day,
Avid of life, against that slow delay
She chafed in vain. To lagging hours beguile,
Ill chanced, she lighted on an ancient store
Of writings of dead days, unthought, unread,
In baffling scripts of eld, that there had lain
Since heathen hands had left them. Seeking fain,
Of keen desires and curious dreamings led,
A fearful lore she found. For there were writ
Charms that could bend the very fiends of hell
To man's caprice; and many a secret spell
That nature thralled: and mystic rites, unfit
For mortal thought to know.

                        Of these so well
She learned, that soon, with fearful trembling joy
She sought in midnight hour to first employ
The power she gained, and proved it. Held in aid
Such service bound and dread, her lifted thought
Saw Uther to her feet in vengeance brought
For her dead sire, and at her hand repaid
The griefs he gave. So passed her days, until
Forth-called to bend her life to Urience' will.

From closing convent walls to bridal bed
She came; and yet two months before she wed
Were ended her short years of maidenhed.
None knoweth if first herself she willed the wrong,
Or powers invoked for ill she found too strong
To bind. But all the moonless night, men say,
Closed in strange arms of lower earth she lay;
And when released she rose with rising day,
And found her chamber barred and void, was lain
This weird upon her, to seek with restless pain
That earthless joy she knew, and seek in vain,
And find it never.

        And yet her babe, Ewaine,
Of incubus derived, or fear unknown,
A true knight, and of loyal heart was he.

V.

Lord of the west, with Garlot, Lothian, Gore,
To further friendship drawn; and next his side,
Beyond fair hope, a longed, consenting bride;
What more of fate could Uther claim, what more
Could fortune grant? Yet irked his heart that now,
Though fixed in speech and deed she held her vow,
Unlike the golden fruit he plucked before,
Her colder arms received him, and her eyes
Were loveless. More to vex his peace, he heard
In the fierce north, half-tamed, dissensions stirred,
Impending war: a tempest muttering low
Which yet might break in ruin. A closer care,
The pledge to Merlin, in his heart would rise,
While of that babe weird-gotten the nearer drew
The hour of birth. At last the sage he sought.
"Merlin," he spake, "this babe Igraine shall bear -
What would ye with it?"

                The sage replied: "That so
Its life may prosper. If thy heart foreknew
The time that cometh, thy thanks were paid. There lives
- His towers wood-hidden the pathless hills amid -
In far North Gales, a knight of worth, and wed
To one of gracious mood, and wise and fair.
Worthy her lord. This dame but now doth bear
Her firstling son. In that lone safety hid,
Thy child shall grow, the while in all she gives
To one not hers an equal care. To bring
Such end to be, this knight, Sir Anton, call
Before thee in a privy place, and there
Entreat him with great gifts, and charge as king,
That he shall take a child unknown, in all
To rear as his, in first esteem. Declare
No more; but only that the kingdom's weal
His trust depends."

                        As Merlin told, he did.
The knight, though loth, of loyalty urged, his word
Gave in full faith, that past his own preferred,
This babe, that soon the king should send, his care
Would foster ever; nor speech nor act reveal
From whence it came to any. Large gifts and rare,
And store of gold, the king, beyond his will,
In guerdon gave.

                Then further to fulfil
The mind of Merlin, passed the king his way
His purpose feignly to Igraine to show,
Where in the shadow of that near birth she lay;
To whom as one in soothful doubt, he said:
"Tell truly if the babe be mine or no,
As Christ at last shall save thee."

                        "Lord," she said,
"I know not. On the night that Gorlois died,
As all men say, it seemed he sought my side,
And I received him as was meet. Next day
From Castle Terribil they brought him dead.
And though that ye believe my word or nay,
I cannot change it."

                "Rest in peace," he said,
"I well believe thee. Yet this babe not mine,
(For so thou sayest, and truth is dark to see),
Whose claim of rule, with my sure heirs at strife,
Might break the kingdom's peace in days to be,
You shall with birth to such sure hand resign
As Merlin's wisdom shows, to raise its life
As one not born to any high degree,
Its place and name unknown of all but he."

"Lord, as thou wilt." For grief and marvel long
Had spoiled her thought, who knew no meaning wrong,
With memory seeming truth which well she knew
Nowise for all its seeming truth were true;
And shame that shrank the seeking word; and fear
That grief had raught her mind.

                        At evensong
The pains of more than death, that life belong,
Were hers to dure. At twilight birth of day
The child of Merlin's wile beside her lay.
At eve returned, from out the postern gate
To Ulfius mounted in the dusk await,
They bore it from her. Through the casement wide,
The hoof beats on her heart to silence died.

VI.

There came no peace to Uther. Discords rent
A realm scarce welded. Wooded wastes of Trent
Poured their wild tribes, and Humber's wolds allied
A gathering cloud behind them rose. To ride
North, in his name, beyond his own Logre,
Or west of where broad Severn turns the sea,
Might no man dare. His nearer foes to aid,
From frozen lands that heathen gods obeyed,
Invading hosts, wing-helmed, were called, and came
Naught loth, and to the land a searing flame
Their passing proved. In two great strifes oppressed,
His captains' hard retreat their loss confessed,
To Ouse's swamps retired. Himself the while,
Of some strange sickness seized, in Servage isle,
In fretful weakness lay.

                        At last he sent
For Merlin's aid, who not his house had failed
At previous calls. But little comfort gave
The doubtful seer. "Behold, the future veiled,
By all my arts," he spake, "I may not see.
For mortal seems thy fate, and near, and save
Thyself can lead thy host, it may not be
But thy strong foes shall wrest their victory.
Yet falleth not thy realm in final loss
To these winged rovers of the frozen sea."

"Nay," said the King, "it seems, by God His Cross,
Myself must rede it. Hast thine art no power
To grant me vigour for one passing hour,
Who am not old, nor weakling deemed afore,
To sweep these raiders to the northern shore?
Be death the toll, no more I ask."

                                But he:
"There is no power but God's shall grant it thee,
Whose weakness toward thine end declines."

                                The King
Roused his last wrath. "My banners yet shall fling
Despite of all, above me, while I drive
Raider and rebel without relent, who strive
Too soon these lands to share: their lord on live
Who drave them ever."

                Though doomed to rise no more,
Lain on a litter, and borne his host before,
He entered London. There some space he stayed,
And all his force in that last strife arrayed,
Summoning the powers by fear or fealty bound
Of tributory kings and lords allied;
While word to Lot, in his far north conveyed,
How best to strike, his own design to aid.
Then in his time he moved, and choosing ground,
Halted before St. Albans, camped astride
The Roman road, and waited, till the sound
Of heathen war-cries waked, and moving men.

Shocked the great hosts with following dawn of day;
And where amidst the opening strife he lay,
Beside his couch he gave command to fling
The dragon banner wide, and plant it deep;
An ensign rooted for his host to keep,
Or lose at once their standard and their king.
There, round the sign of that famed symbol spread,
From earliest lift of dawn till eve was red,
Loud battle roared and rang. For countering there
Were legions striving for a land most fair,
With all it held, and trampled deaths unsung
Countless for that great stake were given, and deeds
And toils heroic in that joined front were hid,
The noise of weapons and blinding dust amid,
And cries that rose in many an outland tongue.

Round the red field the wolves impatient cried:
A cloud in air the gathering ravens hung.

But though declined in heaven the westward day,
To reap more deaths the heathen axes rose
Sateless; and still of racial hate supplied
Was strength renewed in stalwart hearts of those
Who felt their shield-locked line to breaking sway,
Threatening the hour of woe when kindless foes
Upon their children's necks thrall bonds should set,
And on their maids an alien race beget,
If failed their comrades from that field, or they.

Hence with firm hearts reiterant shocks they met,
Though but with force to lift high shield remained
A remnant of themselves, and o'er the dead
Closed their outnumbered front again, that yet
No whit allowed their strife discomfited;
And yet beneath Pendragon their rooted ground
To death's oblivion held; though charged them round,
Three sides at once, wolf-hearted foes who sought
Such gain as gave a fertile land their prey,
With spoil of women to captive servage led;
Meadows and cornlands wide, and herd and stead;
And fair walled towns, the spoiling victors' prize,
And garniture of wealth their homes within,
And in the rich-piled booths strange merchandise,
That one day's jeopard of dear life should win.

So to dusk eve the great strife held; but then
On that fierce rear the noise of charging men
Waked the dim heavens, and swift confusion spread
The invading ranks among, for on their track,
Hard marching, reached and smote the Lothian Lot.
A death to those who fought or those who fled,
Twofold the Christian hosts became. In wrack,
Cloven to the core, with all but fear forgot,
A scattering rout was flung that fierce array.

A broken rout they fled. As each man may
His backward life from that defeat he bears,
Through woods and ways alert of heartened foes.
In shadowy eve or blinder night he goes.
Of wood-doves' food the husks and haws he shares,
Lean as the wintering wolves, and fierce as they.

Were scenes of men that skulk and men that slay
Wide through the land, till all from sea to sea
Northumbria broad and far to Forth was free,
And Eastland and North Gales and all Logre
Heard but from lips of slaves the heathen tongue;
And Lot's hard rule the rebel tribes among
In Uther's name had treasons crushed. But he
The more revered for that great victory,
And lauded by the land he saved, returned
To London: there of weakening pain he learned
How poor the pride of this world's empery;
Till passed he, ending with a voice which called
Igraine, who came not.

                Thus dark Uther died.
No certain heir he left. The sad years saw
A weakened realm that many wraths divide,
Vext with internal and invading war
That inly raged from tortured side to side;
While, midst waste hates and spent confusions wide,
Strength raped, and cunning held, and neither ruth
Regarded, nor the abandoned yoke of law.

For all were kings alike, where king in truth
There was not: no man's arm of strength to stay
The wasting tides of war: no voice to say:
"Be heir to this abandoned realm who may,
Lord-born to break an anarch wrong am I.
I charge ye by my sword: be ruled, or die."
While that lost babe Igraine to Uther bare,
Close nurtured of the kindly hills, unware
Of vacant throne, or waiting land's despair,
To sanguine youth from dreaming childhood grew,
Till near the hour of Merlin's purpose drew.

Arthur.

When Uther died and left no certain heir,
Was none sufficient both of power and will
To make dominion of a throne left bare,
But lordless were the inferior kings, and they
Howled as wolves howl, and made the land a prey,
Vexed it with various rules that void to fill,
And wide confusions when they clashed. Alone
The Church of God around that empty throne
Sustained the concord of the land, and drew
Sharp boundary from the heathen north. Were few
Of peaceful men who did not sigh to see
Some end to this, but what that end might be,
Without worse strife, they saw not.

                        Merlin came
One night to Brise, the priest of Camelot.
"Lord Bishop," said he, "dost thou ponder not
The jeopard of this realm, which single lies
As Christ's strong bulwark from those heathenries
That round its weakened borders surge and fret?"

"Seer," said the priest, "the menace of heathenry
I sleepless fear. But who that rent's repair
Can soothly hope? For found we Uther's heir,
Would any twelve of twenty kings agree
To clip their rights and sink their jars, that he
Should overrule them? Would they not unite
More briskly to tread down the threatening light?"

"Yet this I counsel. On the Christmas day
That nearly cometh, six short weeks away,
Proclaim that Christian lords shall meet and pray
That God may guide them to a choice aright."

"What counsels claim ye with High God herein?"

"I bid ye call to prayer. Can prayer be sin?"

"Good is thy word, from whencesoe'er ye be;
And not for thy repute of wizardry
Will I reject it."

                "Boldly look to see
Propitious fruit therefrom."

                The careful priest
No whit delayed, but for the nearing feast
He called the noblest of the land to pray
In Stephen's minster on the Christmas day,
That Heaven might grant to open proof to bring
The heir of Uther, as their rightful king.

Came at that call to punctual time and place
Far kings and near, the noble and the base.
Came men devout, who cast their sins to plead
At once the church's and the nation's need,
In clean humility acceptable
To Him Who judgeth the heart: came greedful men
Their gains to hold, or seize a chance, or slay
Presumptuous rivals, should the pregnant day
Breed some bold violence, or pretence of right.

So in the winter days, when few men far
Rode the waste ways from sheltering hearth and hall,
And the snowed town within the ingirding wall
Slept in sure peace: when swollen fords would bar,
And wider marsh, chill rain, or changing snow,
Or keener cold prevent the camping foe,
A marvel came. For in that minster met,
The matins of the Christmas dawn to share,
The far-called congregation; and the while,
Though no man heard it on that pavement set,
The dim-dawn light showed in the outer yard,
Fixed on a stone, four-square, of marble hard,
An anvil that a sword transfixed. The blade
Clear through the iron its course had pierced, and yet
Unflawed, as though no force its path had stayed.
A scroll was round it: Who this sword shall draw
Is king of this great realm by right and law.

Then emulous kings, and men of worth or pride,
Stirred by strange hopes, their strengths or fortunes tried,
Watched by a crowd where all estates as one
Mingled in that suspense. Yet came there none
But vainly to his own defeat he tried.

"Behold," they said, "no man the sword may take.
What shall we?"

                And the saint of God replied
"Here shall the stone be stayed, and watch be set
To guard it ever, from Feast to Feast, for yet,
Though no man of your best be worthy now,
Who cometh with cleaner heart may God allow,
Even of your selves, the stubborn sword to draw.

"And one thing first in sign of peace shall ye
Swear on the Rood, that round each Feast shall be
A seven weeks' truce of God, from sea to sea.
That not from fear of lawless might, nor law
Against him given for earlier wrongs, shall one
Of all in these wide realms or kindred land
Undareful, in his stronghold halt, but here
Without except our total count may stand,
None found too weak, and judged too evil none;
That who shall lord us may from Heaven appear,
Not frustrate by our preconcept.

                        "And more:
Swear shall ye soothIy in the Sacred Name
That who shall draw that sword your king shall be."

Then to these oaths did all who heard agree.
Ten stainless knights they chose, and these were sworn
Never by night or noon, by eve or morn,
To leave that stone unwatched, nor hand of man
Permit to close upon it, except the ban
Were raised in session of the realm aright.

But not thereon the assembly broke, for Brise,
Anxious to end at once the evil days,
And thinking God might revelation give,
Contrived such tourney for the New Year's Day,
That few there were but chose that time to stay,
Themselves to venture, or to watch the play.

II

That knight whose dame King Uther's babe had fed,
Sir Anton, had wide lands where Avon's head
Turns through fair pastures southward to the sea,
And Severn's nearer flood. No thought had he
Of crown to seize, or realm to rule; but aim
His sons to nurture in desire of fame
Impelled him that he now to Camelot came,
The jousts to view.

                His elder son, Sir Kay,
Though youthful knighted on the earlier day,
Rode at his side; and of an equal right,
Child of Igraine, Pendragon's doubtful heir,
In no way of high fate or birth aware,
Rode Arthur. Not cold wind, nor drifting snow,
Could cool his eager youth, elate to know
That round him for his choice the whole world lay,
As only youth at the dividing way
Can choose and take.

                As the short day went down,
They reached their lodging in the crowded town,
Bargained before; and ere the sun was through
Rode out again the tourney strife to view.

They rode where all men moved a single way.
Silent behind, the city vacant lay.
Even those ten knights whose oaths the sword to guard
Should there have held them, found restraint too hard.
Where no man stayed, what shielding use were they?
Awhile they bickered, but was none would stay.
Each on his comrades set the moment's trust,
So that the sword stood guardless.

                Who would see
How free-willed men are bound by destiny
May this regard. The new-made knight, Sir Kay,
It chanced his unaccustomed sword forgot.
Loth was he on so bold a tourney day,
As one in childhood yet, to wear it not.

"Arthur, thou hast a better horse than I.
Wilt bring it?"

                Arthur gave a light assent.
Back to their lodging of the night he went.
But met barred doors, for all that tenantry
Had sought the tourney. As he turned, anigh
Rose the great minster. In its yard there stood
The anvil with the sword which none might draw.
Blithe to his chanceful heart his chance he saw.
"If Kay's I leave, I gain a sword as good.
Is none to question here, and ere they learn,
We can replace it at our own return."

As from a sheath of silk, the sword he drew,
And heard far off the tourney trumpets blow.
Naught meant the sword: but what they meant he knew,
And turned in haste, that not the opening show
His eyes should miss. A road left vacant now
He rode at speed, and at the barrier side
He reached Sir Kay.

                "A reckless pace you ride.
But that - You bring a sword which is not mine!"

"Your own I might not reach."

                "But whence is this?"

"The sword was in the stone, which none will miss,
For none to watch and none to guard was by."

His father heard Sir Kay's exultant cry:
"The sword is from the stone, and king am I!"

"That sword was taken from the stone?" He said.

"So was it."

        Sir Anton spake no more, but led
Back to the minster yard an instant way,
Where swordless stood the stone.

                        "I charge thee say
How to thy hand it came. From knightly law
Deceit at this strange pass would cast thee far."

Kay answered with slow truth full craftfully:
"My brother brought it for my use," said he,
"And therefore king am I."

                        "What'er you are,
Put back the sword. To earn that blade a right,
It must avoid the stone in all men's sight."

"How, when no gap the iron's smooth surface shows,
Can the sword enter?"

                "That shall Arthur try."

"Nay, for the elder, with more right, am I."

Hard thrust Sir Kay, but iron to steel replied.
On the hard surface slipped the sword aside,
Or jarred the arm that drave it. Ruthfully
Sir Kay resigned it. "Naught but sorcery
Could here prevail."

                To be alike repelled
Thought Arthur as the heavy sword he held,
But thrust, lighthearted, with a laughing word,
And force he did not need, for sank the sword
As though it countered but the yielding air

"Canst draw it out?" Sir Anton asked.

                        "But yes.
That have I done before."

                With ease no less
He drew it from the anvil's hold away.
As though within its native sheath it lay.

"Return it once again, and leave it there."

Again the sword within the anvil sank,
As though the stubborn iron but water were.
But yet, as founded in one piece, to Kay
Rock was it. So proved it at his twice essay.

Then knee to earth Sir Anton stooped, and said:
"Lord, and my king, whom Heaven hath found, no sire,
No father more, but of thy lieges see
One who would lowly on thy part remain,
As thou shalt swear me first of all thy train."

"Father," the child replied, with blinded eyes,
"I may not hold thee so. Except thou rise,
My word goes from me."

                "Nay, for child of mine
(Save as one shielded in long bonds of love)
I may not claim thee more. Nor must I say
Of how you came. For such the oath I swore.
But for these ended years I ask no more
Than one boon only."

                "That thou wouldst is thine,
If this be dreamless of the waking day.
Else were I shamed for ever."

                "I ask that Kay
Be senechal of thy lands."

                "That boon to give
Is lightly sworn. The while we both shall live
There is none else shall hold it."

                "Kind my lord,
As must be - King thou art of Heaven's accord,
Shown by the verdict of that mystic sword -
Well were it that to Brise forthright we go."

So went they, and the priest this counsel gave:
"Say naught, nor do, until the conclave meet
On the twelvth day, when all our realm complete
Shall for the verdict of the sword compete.
And if this marvel then to all ye show,
There will be those of loyal hearts and brave
Thy part to hold, though some will find no joy
To yield their princedoms to a nameless boy."

Came the twelvth day. High lords and kings were there,
Barons of good name, and knights of large repute,
And meaner louts who came that chance to share,
With hearts that hungered for a kingdom's loot.
Some on wide rule, or princely birth, relied;
Some on plain worth, and some on emptier pride;
Some on brute strength the bedded sword to wrest,
And some, who deemed not that themselves were best,
Yet thought with loyal hearts the realm to bless,
If God's high wisdom should their worthlessness
Accept and use.

                To this high test there came
Not only wealth and power and rank and fame,
Not only ermine white or golden vair,
And knights' gay tabards, scrolled and broidered fair,
But all in sendal, or inferior wear,
To homespun rude, were free that sword to try.
Ostler and host, and chapman wandering by,
Miller and wright, and churl and armourer,
Even the swineherd, if his heart allowed
To face the laughter of the jeering crowd.

Some hours the long slow files their fortunes tried,
And moved rejected from the stone aside,
And then came Anton with no eagerness
His turn to take; and Kay; who strove no less
For the last day's defeat; and Arthur then,
Amidst the deep breaths of astounded men,
Drew the sword out, and laughed, and raised it high,
And thrust it back, as though no mastery
Were in a natural act. The startled crowd
Was like a murmuring sea. One voice aloud
Led the long cry that rose, and would not still.
"A king! A king!" The voice of Brastias cried.
A thousand voices with that word replied.

But not from those of rank the voices rose.
Scornful, amazed, appalled, of evil will,
Envious of heart, the morn's untrustful foes
Looked in each other's eyes, and thoughts of ill
Made base accords before the evening fell.
And even those of cleaner hearts were slow
To welcome one whose birth they did not know,
A youth unnamed, unproved. And hence delay
Was urged, except where Merlin's word prevailed.
(For Merlin, from their consort long away,
Among them moved.) Yet even Merlin failed
To range such strength of front on Arthur's part
As might suffice those boisterous cries to still,
And gave delay consent. This word availed
With even those most urged of evil will;
For who, if to his loss the dice he threw,
Would not forget the cast, and dice anew?

All to the Feast of Candlemas was then
Deferred, new test to try, and simple men
Prayed that in peace it might determined be.

So lord and king each went his separate way,
But ever, five by night, and five by day,
Watched the ten knights that none the sword should free
By might, or by device, or sorcery.
And Arthur in like sort by Merlin's care
Was compassed by good knights of bold report,
Both in his riding and his rest, that ne'er
Should treason reach him; and good friends he gained
By frank response and light of prideless eyes -
The morning light that later storms may dim.
So much of childhood and of God remained
That all was glamour and high deeds to him.

And some there were who later favour sought;
And some were selfless in desire to see
The will of Heaven prevail; and some were led
By Merlin's counsel, or by Brise; and so
The cause of Arthur gathered strength; but yet
For one who called him friend was twice a foe.
And when at Candlemas again were met
Barons and kings the further test to try,
And only Arthur drew the sword once more,
Still was there discord, and hot words were said,
And swords half-drawn, and once again delay
Was urged, and all deferred to Easter day;
And then to Pentecost.

                But Merlin drew
Such lords aside as, though of hostile sort,
Were yet of honour, and of fair report,
And asked: "What think ye at the last to do?
Will God be mocked? How many times anew
Must Arthur draw the sword, and all beside
Attempt and fail? Against the goad to kick,
- Of old they wrote it - prompts the harder prick.
The stubborn lastly by their deaths will pay."

With troubled mien they answered: "Sooth ye say.
We would not of our hearts averse our will
From Him who doth our ransomed lives fulfil.
But bitter dole were here, perverse and ill,
That child unbearded should our best obey,
Preferred before his natural lords; and they,
Strife-hardened, proved in many a sleight and wile
Of practised war, his lighter words defer."

Answered the sage: "If wiser these ye ween
Than He Who ruleth all, will now be seen
Whether his purpose or your wills prevail.
Think ye God's choosing will be changed of men?
Are ye so fond another end to plan?
Bethink ye whom ye are, and whom is He."

These words had weight to win a large consent,
And silence others of the malcontent;
But smouldering hates remained, for wroth were they,
The thwarted kings, and bitter strife had been,
Save that they might not in one aim unite
Their various greeds, and each of all suspect,
Bethought, if first his blade were naked seen,
Ill might his peers, in justice' name, requite
A causeless murder of their king elect,
Although the while their privy hearts were glad.

And more they hid the baffled wrath they had
Because that, dense their ordered spears around,
And clamorous in their joy, the general crowd,
So long by lawless bondage cursed, aloud,
Hailed as God's choice a king their hearts had crowned.

III.

So Arthur on a troubled throne was set
By miracle of choice, and wondering yet
What meant that miracle, and why should be
The marvel of the sword, that only he
Could loose it.

        To Sir Anton spake he: "Sire,
- For so I still would call thee - wilt thou say
Of whom my birth, and by what devious way
I came to call thee father?"

                        "All, my king,"
Sir Anton answered, "of thy just require
I tell thee that I know. At dusk of day
It was but few weeks from the birth of Kay -
A knight in secret wise arrived to bring
A babe that Merlin bargained months afore
That I should take. The straitest oath I swore
To guard it with my life, and naught to speak
Or ask thenceafter, nor its birth to seek.
The knight who brought it by such oaths alike
Was bound to lasting silence. Guessed I more
I might not speak it. But I do not guess.
Soothly, I know not whom thy sire may be,
Excepting only that I am not he."

Arthur to Merlin went: "Good friend to me,
And knowing as none else how these things be,
Wilt thou not freely in good faith declare
That which will cease my doubt?"

                The sage replied:
"I may not tell thee all. The past I see
Inseparate from the fateful years to be.
But if thy destined course were turned aside,
Not even magic art should reach to tell
What would be other: but it were not well."

"It were my bane to know?"

                        "I say not that.
It were to break and change the future days
From what they will be."

                "Which is fair?"

                        "Not so.
At least, not wholly. But the ills we know
However bitter to regard, may be
Less than the evils which we do not see.
As in a mirror may we dimly view
The destined end; but if in fear we turn
From that our hearts become too faint to learn,
It is as though the mirror breaks. To give
Clear vision of the cause alternative
It will not serve us. But we well may fear,
When for God's hand our own we stretch to steer,
We shall not better than His wisdom meant."

"I ask no longer "

                        "That ye ask shall be
Later disclosed, which now were bane to thee,
To stir confusion and unite thy foes.
For now thy thoughts to apter use were bent
To count the short tale of thy certain friends,
Ranging the strength on which thy throne depends
More swiftly than their league against thee grows
Who are repelled, but yet not reconciled,
Nor yet subjected to thy rule.

                                "Of those
Whose hearts are hateful, most ye need, to dread
The Lothian Lot, whose might, since Emrys fell,
All storms have strengthened. Cautious, vengeful, bold;
Most craftful; when the sudden chance he saw,
Swift at the swoop, a ruthless hawk of war.
Such hath he proved him ever. Ware him well."

He heard and heeded. While a hostile crew,
More bold to flaunt him as their distance grew,
Rebellion ranged, he made his own expand
In narrower limits, thoroughly to subdue
The fertile vales and uplands of Logre,
And the two coasts of Severn's estuary
(Excepting Gore's strong-towered and naked land),
And Cornwall southward to the final sea.

But those who Uther's throne had buttressed well
Aforetime, though they now to treason fell,
Yet could not singly to one end unite,
Though Lot gave counsel. Jealous hates alight
Too fiercely burned to bargain, king with king,
What charges they should bear, what numbers bring,
Without dissent, and discord, and delay.

Yet at the last they joined a host that lay
Along the cliffs of Gore, and crossing thence
(After the guile of Lot; with short pretence,
Had feinted at Caerleon's walls to throw
A force they had not been of height to stem)
They landed where Tintagel faced the sea,
And then moved southward; while to counter them
Arthur, withheld by doubt of where would be
Their planned advance, now came with all his power
To meet them blithely, in no dreadful hour,
But of his star alertly confident.

Yet were they no mean foes, and when they met,
Six kings, with knights around them numberless,
Their banners flaunted. Garlot's sable fess
Led the bold van, and near beside were set,
Argent and gules, the twisted snakes of Gore,
And Ireland's emerald sign; and there behind,
Where Lot had rule, and cunning wile designed,
His fierce ger-falcon flew. The panthers four
Of Scotland's Caradoc, and the wolf await
Of the young king who owned no stablished state,
He of the Hundred who his kingdom were -
These flanked the ranks of Orkney.

                Now was heard
The roar of conflict from the closing van;
And Lot no more his subtle ruse deferred
Than for assurance that the strife began
Firm-fronted to resist the most that lay
In Arthur's power to test it. Then he turned
His rearward ranks, and round low woodland led,
Curving to Arthur's rear. The sleights he learned
When at St Alban's, fifteen years before,
The heathen rear he smote with slaughter red,
He thought to practice on a hardier foe.

The Irish ranks, with Garlot and with Gore,
Had their short peril. Had they failed to show
Unbroken front to Arthur's greatest, then,
Left naked of support, their loss had been
Beyond remede. But no resistless strain
Swayed the locked lines, till Arthur paused to hear
The height of battle on his startled rear.

But not as once a heathen horde had fled
Replied the knights of Arthur. Facing round,
Orkney and Ireland in new front they found,
And met them boldly. Though surrounded now,
And in strait space confined, they knew not how,
Was none but held firm ground as knightly well
As though he losely rode: whose good blows fell
As hardly on his foeman's helm; and so
Having repelled design of overthrow
At the first impulse of confused surprise,
The solid core within that girdle raged,
Yieldless, and furious as a beast encaged
That strains its bars and feels them bend, that so
Hope rouses strength, and weights a deadlier blow
At that which yields the more; so valiantly
They met the compass of surrounding foes
That refluent were they flung, and bursting free
The knights of Arthur broke the ranks of those
Who thought to break them.

                        In no scattering rout
Some space his sullen foes retired, unsure
If strength were theirs that day for victory.
And then, when counsels clashed, as well might be
Where no true friendships were, to break their doubt,
King Lot his resolution spake, no more
Of Lothian lives to lose: "While light endure,
We may continue to be slain or slay,
Piling abortive loss. For fixed are they
Beyond uprooting. If we more contend,
It will remain we have not gained nor lost.
Why buy that verdict at a larger cost?"

Pleased or displeased thereat, alike they knew
They would be left too weak when Lot withdrew,
If more they challenged, at the last to meet
With the disaster of their full defeat.

Sullen and slow, in ordered ranks, without
Pursuit or harass, in no guise of rout,
They left a field they did not lose nor win.
For Merlin's wisdom the reluctant king
Heard and obeyed: "To that retreat molest
Would be vain slaughter. For a harder test,
That yet must come, thy strength conserve, and well
Regard thy preparation. Save ye heed
The voice of caution, may thy foes exceed
Thine utmost strength to drive them."

                        Arthur went
His barons of these warning words to tell.
To which they answered: "Have we seemed so weak?
Let the six kings their last supporters seek
And we may rack them."

                "Friends," the king replied,
"Stout-hearted are ye, to my much content.
But ours is peril which I must not hide.
For our full strength we showed; and strengths allied
May join the six upon no distant day.
In the short pause of blows should counsel be.
And Merlin to good end hath counselled me
Not one time only. Let our prides allow
At least to hear him when he counsels now."

They sought the sage. He said: "Your foes will go,
As some far-drowning tide retires to fling
A further-forward wave. They think they know
The tale of all your strength; and if they bring
Allies united by the hope of prey
(As from the lands they neighbour well they may)
They will asses their strength to tread thee flat.
And therefore, in no craven mood, but clear
Of judgement, to discern, and then to steer
To better harbour of good peace than that
Which they would purpose, for their overthrow
I give this counsel: In the land of Gaul,
And far to south, where Benoic fronts the sea,
Two kings are cousins, and one enmity
Confronts them both. Kings Ban and Bors are they.
Stout-hearted both in war's debates, but he
Who to the mountains rules in Burgundy,
King Claudas, to their lower lands possess,
Each season irks them with some new distress.
Still they resist, but still his arms prevail
Some tower to storm, to grasp some fertile vale,
Making his lands the more, and theirs the less.

"To these two kings let proffer fair be sent
That if they bring sufficient aid to thee
To rout rebellion here, thine aid shall be
As potent to combine in strong aggress
Against King Claudas, till his chastened mood
Return his plunder, and good peace conclude.
This should be gain to them, and gain to thee,
And all of loyal sort, and equity."

The barons answered with one voice: "Is here
A project pregnant with success." The king
Praised it alike: Whatever force they bring
No niggard count shall equal. Every spear
Our strength augmenting victory brings more near
At lighter purchase. Nor should prudence weigh
Our foes too lightly. Stark of heart are they.
Violent of use, and wileful to devise
The fatal toils of war."

                        "Good sooth ye say,"
The sage replied. "Their heathen-neighboured lands
Such tutors both in blows and ruse have been
That those of warier sleights or hardier hands
The world contains not. Count them of such kind
That starker foes on live ye shall not find,
Who neither mercy ask nor mercy mean.

IV.

Ulfius and Brastias from the best of those
Who once were Uther's strength Mage Merlin chose
To do that errand. To the Benoic land
A fair wind took them. There King Bors they found,
And, by good chance, King Ban, whose needs had brought
Their meeting, to confer on how defence
Too long sustained might take offensive range
In such reversion as would all rely
On one last effort to prevail or die.

But here was solving of their doubt unthought,
As often, when the snare of circumstance
Invites despair, and those of feeble will
Would all resign, and wisdom's lips are dumb,
As from God's hand shall strange occasion come,
Beyond foreseeing or control of those
Its casual salvage; so the two kings heard
From Arthur's knights the unexpected word
That changed design and gave new confidence.

They saw short peril while their arms would be
So largely distanced by dividing sea,
Lessened if those they left the while should dwell
In compass of strong holds, and garnished well;
And cancelled at the worst when Arthur's spears
Beneath Pendragon should King Claudas see,
Portending loss; and in his startled ears
Should Britain's trumpets sound.

                        That all should be
Well ordered, now was bargain made that first
Should the two kings, in ceremonial wise,
Caerleon's court attend, while, still dispersed,
Their armies, from the winter days' release,
Routine assembly made, as though to bar
King Claudas' raiding bands, to then decrease
Their ranks by seaward movements in the night,
Leaving strong garrisons in town and tower
To hold their walls from storm, as well they might,
In expectation of the early hour
When the two kings, with Arthur's larger power
Would all reverse.

                This plan in all prevailed.
The two kings from the port of Benoic sailed,
Garnished and favoured well, and of their train
Three hundred chosen knights. With seemly state
King Arthur met them at the eastern gate
Of Caerleon's Roman wall, and therewithin
He lodged their noblest well, the while without
Their following camped.

                And now were treaties made
Of fair import, that equalled aid for aid,
Numbers, and times, and arms, and furnishings,
To which the seals of the contracting kings
Their honours staked.

                        Then in high rivalry
Against King Arthur's knights the hundreds three
In general tourney clashed. Was soon to see
That matched in valour and in might were they,
Preluding what in later years should be
A cancerous ill. But that was far away.
Now spurred they at the tourney-trumpet's peal
To wide promiscuous mimic strife that closed
In deafening tumult, while the gleam of steel
Shone through enveloping dust. As when contend
The lords of storm in ultimate air opposed,
When thunderous heaven to heaven, and deep to deep
Make answer, and the sudden lightnings leap,
So did that conflict's roar to heaven ascend:
So did the sudden blades the dust offend.

But Arthur watched the strife with eyes aware
That all who took their wounds or dealt them there
Were friends at need to him. As rose its heat
Beyond restraints that mortal harms should bar,
He bade the trumpets sound that called retreat
To rearward of the lists. "No single star
Excels," he said, "where all in heaven that are
Have their own place, and part, and excellence."

So with good words to joyous ease they passed,
To sojourn while the winter days should last
In Arthur's providence, while here they stayed
Until the lengthening days, Mage Merlin made
A secret journey to the Benoic land,
In the kings' names those movements to command
Which to the coast their mobile ranks withdrew,
And shipped to Britain; while remained the few
Chosen their passive praiseless part to do,
Captains discreet, on whom their lords relied
Behind the shelter of strong walls to bide;
A threat that Claudas could not pass, and leave
His land to foray, or his rear to grieve.

V.

Fair spring, that dried the hollow ways, allowed
Beneath blue skies, or change of light and cloud,
Assembly of the host of Arthur's foes
In the far north, beyond his rule, which went
No further than the southern bank of Trent.

Near where the widening Humber seaward flows
They fixed their meeting-place. The six were now
By five augmented. Mark of Cornwall chose,
After long doubt, the part he thought would win,
But pleaded distance, which would scarce allow
A large contingent. "That," he wrote, "wherein
I most may aid is here await to lie
And menace Arthur's rear."

                        "He will not that,"
King Lot, who scorned him, said, "but there await
Will seek to profit from our hard debate
At little cost. Before our swords are dry,
He may repent it."

                                He of Camberet,
Duke Eustace, brought strong spears; and Brandigore
Was bought his feud with Scotland to forget
By lust of plunder. From Northumberland
King Clarence with his moorland horsemen came;
And came King Credimont, from isle and strand
With those whom neither seas nor winds could tame.

Southward they marched, the while King Arthur lay
East of the forests of Bedgraine; but they
Found barren leagues to pass, for Merlin's care
Wasted the land. The scouts of Arthur spread
Forward and far, till those who foremost led
The rebel host they touched, and then retired,
Reducing all. The barns they cleared. They fired
That which they might not move. From field and wood
The herds and swine they drave. To silent stead
And emptied byre the invaders came; the while
The host of Arthur's part in plenty fed.

VI.

It was two nights before the dawn that saw
The hard encounter of the ruthless war
That the bold king the Hundred knights who led
Dreamed a great dream. Though in his waking days
No land was his, who rode regardless ways
(His camp his home, his knights his subjects were),
He dreamed that in great towers he dwelt. They rose
Immense to heaven, the while aborted foes
Around them ranged and died. Impregnable
He with content, and they with raging, knew
They must be ever. But a tempest blew
Their massive girth around. The winds a shriek
Grasped the great walls, that shook like canvas weak,
And like a blown pavilion inward fell.

Then the wind died, and where those towers had been
A great flood swept, and bore their wrecks away.
At which he waked to wonder, and to tell
So strange a dream; and that his mind had seen
Remained so vivid, and so feared to say,
That those who heard as words of doom received,
Till Lot, who starkly in good steel believed,
Mocked their unsubstanced fears.

                        "Behold," he said,
"How rashly are vain dreams interpreted!
The dreamer hath no tower: he hath no land.
Should that which is not built be strong to stand?
Nothing the dream (or any dream) implies
Beyond the turmoil in our minds that lies."

But men about to slay, or else to die,
Brace their strong harness, and their dreams put by.
Eleven armies now their ranks arrayed
(For Mark his meagre contribution made,
Though holding absent) and their bold advance
Was dazzling with bright arms, and shields aglance.
Lot stretched his front the most he might, but here
The river flanked them, and the woods anear
Narrowed their march. Upon their leftward flank,
Low-built beside the river's nearer bank,
Were Bedgraine's walls, for Arthur held. Was need
Half Garlot to detach, its gates to heed,
Lest their loose rear should feel an issuing foe.

Before them lay King Arthur's host, but so
That as their van should leave the woods behind,
And the uncertain stream should eastward wind,
On front and flanks the curved attack should be.
Yet for this wide attempt must Arthur spread
Thin ranks reliant more on hardihed
Than on close front and push of crowding spear.
For only Arthur's dragon led Logre:
The arms of Benoic were not here to see.
By Merlin's ruse in Bedgraine woods they lay,
Waiting their time. For Lot was meeting here
His own device, against a formless rear,
When the strife roared, a serried force to fling.

So, as the rebel armies, king by king,
Extended on the wider plain, they found
Three sides their interrupted ranks around
A fierce assault drive in, where half arrayed
Each knight must meet who fronts him, blade for blade.

Unordered ranks the sudden onset gored,
And broken both, a wild confusion roared,
Congesting those who first deployed, and then
Obstructing who behind them pressed. The strife
Raged for long hours, while Ban and Bors withheld
Their Benoic spears, that Arthur's knights alone
Should prove their might.

        But when this might was shown
Equal to hold, but not to rout, the word
Was sent to loose them. Benoic's green and gold,
And Gaul's gay silken lilies, azure-scrolled,
From the dark woods in ranks impatient spurred.
Came riot that far off King Arthur heard,
As Lot with hasteful regiment opposed
The sudden peril that the woods disclosed,
With fiercer strife than had been, flank and rear.
But what of front or flank had meaning here?
One side the river made a partial screen.
One side the woods that had protection been
Were live with foes, the while, behind, before,
Foes of the earlier day, and foes the more
Which noonday brought, their pressure urged, that so
That which before he taught was his to know.
And as before had Arthur's knights endured,
So did these others, being, as they were,
Of the like blood, and in like mood aware
That only in themselves their safety lay.
So were they constant with good blows to pay
For those they felt.

                But Arthur's heart was glad,
Seeing the battle that before he had
Reversed in process, and assured that now
He ruled such ranks as would not break nor bow,
But hold the taken in too hard a net
For any outward burst its sides to fret.
While Lot, from when the Benoic arms he saw,
Knew that not ever in a world of war
Had been such hazard to his life and fame.

"Good friends," he said, "our straitened space to bar,
Three sides our foes, and one the waters are.
Loose we our footmen through the woods to flee,
As by good chance through closing boughs they may,
Each for himself; and with firm front will we
Resist them till of deaths they tire. For here
What flight remains? We must their fury stay,
Or all be lost."

                In this resolve combined
They dressed their lines anew. Before, behind,
(Though now was little choice of front or rear,
Excepting that the river's fordless screen
Gave cover where their leftward flank had been)
No vacant space was left, but spear by spear
And steed by steed they stood, while round them surged
Arthur's exultant ranks, whose spears converged
On their defensive front. No harder strife
Than the next hour's the long encounter saw.
With wound for wound they paid, with life for life,
Till, wearied by the heavy toll of war,
They slackened as the light of evening
Left the high skies, and failed along the west.

Then where they stood the rebel kings must make
Their compassed camp, with here no junketing,
No mood of song to hold the night awake.
But cold at heart for many a good knight's fall,
And weary past desire for aught but rest,
And cumbered with the slain, and wounded all,
And thoughtful that return of light would bring
Resumption of such strife as deathward led.

But round them lay their foes, alike distrest,
With wounds as deep, with equal deaths to mourn.
Yet knowing that their purpose fairly sped,
And thinking to conclude with following morn
The full destruction of a taken prey.

But when morn came, and Arthur's strong array
Advanced for end of those its toils within,
Mage Merlin spake: "Lord king, thy wrath delay
Awhile to hear me. Those who will, not fly,
Preferring midst their victors' deaths to die,
Who will thy most endure, thy worst defy,
If now thy clement hand neglect to slay,
May be the bulwark at a later day
Of this thy realm when heathen swords are bare.
Will not thy best be slain the while they slay?
I charge thee now a further loss to spare,
Lest God's long patience tire. Thy part were best
To leave them standing with no more molest:
Leave them to lick their wounds, and list their slain.

"Believe that here they will not long remain,
For evil tidings to their counsel speed.
Their lands, left lordless, with rebellions bleed:
Their seaward borders from the heathen breed
The North lets loose when Christian discords rise.
Thou shouldst not now to further weakness fret
Swords that may soon with Christless blood be wet.
By the far sight that Heaven allows, I vow
They will not vex thee for three years from now,
When thou shalt meet them with more strength than here,
And win, and weld them to one conquering blade,
And find them faithful to thy throne and thee,
When those wild heathen of the colder sea
Shall press thy bounds till every sword be dear."

Answered the king: "Against my mortal foes
My sword is bare, and ere the day goes
I count to break them."

                "Yet my word believe
Thyself at last thy further wrath shouldst grieve."

Then Arthur reined impetuous mood to heed
A cooler counsel.

                From the northward road
His ranks, to wood and heath retiring, showed
Clear exit. Ware at first, and then with speed,
The rebels, to a beaten field agreed,
But doubtful of some deadly ruse, defiled
To flight and freedom.

                With his foes dispersed,
Dejected, and conscious of the wounds they nursed,
And soon of bold barbarian hosts aware,
Their general absence had aroused to raid
Rich lands left vacant of their former care,
That they must form new fronts to overbear,
Or be themselves reversed, King Arthur saw
The wisdom of the word his wrath had stayed.

Not treatied peace, but mutual pause of war
Three years would last, the while the strength he spared
The outer ramparts of his realm repaired
From heathen inroads, lacking sight to see
Their travail at the last his gain would be.

So, to a peace they had not known before,
Logre far northward to the line of Trent,
The Severn vale, and Devon's broad extent,
He brought, and westward to the bounds of Gore
Beyond Caerleon, and the wilder ways
That were the landward route to Listonaise.

All these he ruled, and in his strength secure
Such comfort of strong spears to Benoic sent
That Claudas could not in set field endure
Those whom he drave before. And when the knights
Of Arthur's sending left the Benoic land
Where peace would be, from lust of war's delights,
Desires of fames, or friendships' calls, there went
Therewith a score of Benoic's best, to be
In later, greater days at Arthur's court,
Not least in splendour for his throne's support,
And pregnant to decide its last event.

VII.

Now from the caution and the craft of Lot
Came a strange seed to bear a distant woe,
Which not a thousand further years forgot;
A tale at this late day that all men know.

Long while he pondered Arthur's power, and weighed
The wisdom to oppose or else to aid
His crescent strength. 'It hangs at last,' he thought,
'Most on himself, who is young, unproved, untaught
In rules of kinghood, and the needful guile
That hides its purpose till the pointing prow
Is close to ram. Audacious first success
Will hold him in his place, no lengthened while,
Except with thriftful care he use it now
To form his friendships and his bounds to dress....
More must I learn before I chose.'

                                He went
To seek Morgause: "Fair wife, attend," he said,
To one who all in awe and half in dread
Looked to her older lord, whose forceful hand
Had rent her girdle when from Cornish land
He bore her as the wage of conquering war,
The gift of Uther for the aid he gave,
"I need thee for a task none else could do,
And none could bring to better fruit than you.
For either must I join to Arthur's power,
If he be stablished in a rule secure,
Or take the chance of his disastrous hour,
If he be found unfit to long endure
The adverse gales on such a course that blow.
Therefore I send you to his court in sign
Of peace and friendship, and your part shall be
To use the sensuous arts you lightly know
To find his weakness and his strength. For so
Thy sons shall prosper at his side; or we
Take the high place where Merlin's craft hath set
A youth unsinewed for such destiny.

"I will that to Caerleon court you ride,
Your ladies and your children at your side,
With knights of honour, but in festal guise
For proof of friendship. That I thus devise,
The sullen beaten kings that round him lie
Will warn, no further test too soon to try;
Deeming, as surely he will deem thereby,
I seek alliance, and no more would be
In league against him. But yourself will know
I am not certain friend nor certain foe,
But watch the scale, that as it rise or fall
I may the more incline it. All thine art,
As well thou canst, to subtle purpose bend,
To bind him to thee. Make him much thy friend.
Yet do it briefly. Lag not to depart.
Ourselves are royal."

                        So to Arthur's court
She who was half his sister came. But naught
Knew either of the bond of blood. She brought
Her four young sons. The first, nigh grown
Gawain; Gaheris, keen and hard; and Agravain,
Sullen and strong; and youngest and most dear,
The laughing Gareth.

                While the year was young
They journeyed southward. Still cold winter hung
Its shield's white challenge on the leafless bough.
But not for swollen ford or frozen way
Less gaily rode Morgause. Nor turn nor stay
Was hers for wild March winds, or those who lay
Across her transit. For the name of Lot
More than her escort of strong spears availed
To guard her. Where his fierce gyr-falcon flew,
Not often in remotest hills it failed
An open path to gain from all who knew
His mode of war. So through the whole land's length
She moved secure. The winter's lessening strength
Her sole restraint, she rode with ranks entire
Caerleon's gates of open welcome through.

Gay with hued silks those ranks, and bright with gold,
And brave with front of proven knights who led
The lengthened line of spears in which was set
The silken litter that her ease allowed.
But now she chose a fair white palfrey, thus
To grant her presence to the cheering crowd.

Gracious to all, their curious looks she met
With smiling eyes, the while her spearmen gazed
As men by naught allured, by naught amazed,
Straight forward. Thoughtless were they trained for war.
Lot's iron hand formed them.

                Royal alike in wise,
Rode Arthur outward in midstreet to show
Meet honour to a queen in friendship's guise
Who offered concord from a pausing foe.
A seawind was there from the south, that back
The ladies' scarves, the knights long pensels blew,
And from the bleak March skies their drifting rack
Swept north, till naked heaven was coldly blue.

So met they, strangers in the open street,
Knowing not the bond of blood which both forbad
The falsehood that she wrought, and that they had
Of other sort in the near days. She saw
No stern-browed king, no hardened hawk of war,
Such as at Orkney's royal board would meet;
But frank-eyed youth, and grace, and comeliness,
That expectation and report were less
Than whom with smiling lips she bent to greet.
Nor Arthur's greeting was of colder kind,
Nor feigned of craft. For here high polity
With youth's keen impulse joined. So fair was she
In her full womanhood, his heart inclined
In swift desire toward her, instant, blind,
Untested in the doubtful lists of love.

Had she been distant on her part, as one
Assured and elder in her place and name,
Naught might have been of larger evil done,
But longing, barren of all hope to claim,
Had been the sport of time to change, or tame
To ever fainter though more dear regret,
Only to be recalled in empty hours.

Or, had he loved her not, it had not been.
For she from fault of random lusts was clean,
Unlike to Morgan, whose unlikely powers
Were servants to a lust incontinent.
True had she been to one unloved, whom yet
In his stern habit had been justly kind.
But now, obedient to his word, she bent
All her sweet ways a king's regard to gain
Who in swift passion for herself was fain.
Weak was her fence such keen response to find,
Such love, such worship, and such gentleness.

Was wonder here that one so lured forgot
The cunning purpose which the craft of Lot
Had laid upon her? If her heart were less
Held by that alien thought than drawn to yield
Love's favour, caught on that unequal field?

Sweet converse soon to sweeter usage grew.
The severing bond of blood that neither knew,
Its barriers down, was in that ignorance
Traitor to their integrities, for they
Were kindred largely in those thoughts which lie
Within the backward mind. Herself she showed,
As Lot had counselled. By that open road
Came Arthur to the door of mortal sin,
Asked not its price, but pressed, and entered in.

One month was all before she backward went
To her bleak northern home. One month was all.
Yet in those days was wrought, beyond repent,
The deaths of myriads, with an empire's fall.
Backward she went the fruit of sin to bear,
Ware of her fault, and yet not all aware,
Who knew not Arthur for her closest kin.

No thought of sorrow for so dear a sin
Was Arthur's as he watched her pensels go,
Till the far flashes of the sunlit spears
Died out, and left him to a lonely woe.
But in the watches of the sleepless night
A bitter conflict in his heart he knew:
'Her will I gain in very Heaven's despite.'...
'Unknightly were it from a cause untrue
To war on Lot, his wife to gain anew,
Whom sent he in good faith and friendly will.'...
'How know I but he plots his treason still?'...
'I know not that he doth.'.... 'If thus I do,
Will she consent her lord's reverse to see,
And join her life to whom his bane hath been?...
Whom loves she surely if she loves not me?
Lot's widow were her choice, or Camelot's queen?'

There was his doubt the most. If strife should be,
Lot's ruin or his death to work, would she
Witness that wrack, and then in full consent
Accept a seat beside the conqueror's throne?
Much surely had she in love's weakness shown,
But less than told him that. In thought he went
Backward to search for any certain sign,
And did not find it. Torn by doubt he lay.
Too noble-natured to his lust obey:
Too lustful for her to his hope decline.

He knew not to such deeds his birth he owed,
Yet half was bent to take Pendragon's road,
And half his mother's juster blood forbad;
And in this doubt he slept at last, and knew
His mind disordered still. Such dreams he had
That waking discords were but peace thereto.

For now a vision dread his thoughts possessed,
Not of kind ease, and love's soft comforting,
But in his land he was a lonely king,
Beset by entering foes that darkness bred.
From earth's deep entrails, and from fields of air
Black with low storm, their hateful onsets were.

With claws to tear, with venomed deaths to spew,
Snakes upward writhed, and dragons downward flew.
Through all the pested land the folk they slew,
And he fought only. Now he smote below,
And now thrust upward at a swooping foe.
Wounded he was, and dazed with strife, but still
Were more to chase aside, and more to kill.
Till faint from toil, and weak from wounds that bled,
He stood alive amidst the countless dead,
And waked, but was at heart uncomforted.

Again he slept: again he chased and slew.
But ever as he turned they came anew,
And still he smote, although most wearily,
Till the last writhing ceased, and he could know
He lived among the slain. But even so
He felt no triumph victoring thus to stand,
For they had left him in an empty land,
And empty also in his heart was he.

Thereat he waked, and looked abroad to see
The pause of dawn, while yet wide heaven was flecked
With failing stars. The deep immensity,
Dawn-pregnant, did not wholly yet conceal
That space unbound which never daylight shows
Where the stars wander on their loneliest ways.
Now Arthur felt its power to cease and heal
The short disturbance of the transient days
Of mortal being. 'Here is need,' he thought,
'Of better counsel than my heart can give;
For all my later days to lose or live
Must here depend.'

        Mage Merlin's aid he sought,
The tumult of his tortured thoughts to still,
But gained he naught thereby, for Merlin's will
Was not to aid him, as, at Uther's call,
He once had aided. "Now shall truth be told,"
He answered, "haply on too late a day;
Though that be more than mortal men can say,
Who see a babe's birth, or a kingdom's fall,
Not as God sees it, in its place with all,
That thus the coloured pattern fitly glow."

"But this thou must to halt thy purpose know:
Thou art the child of Uther and Igraine,
Begotten ere they wed, and placed away
In wise most secret, lest the doubt that lay
Around thy coming were thy childhood's bane,
With such contention when Pendragon died
As might have slain thee. Here is certain cause
To hold thee separate, for the Queen Morgause
Is half thy sister."

                "That I hold too ill
For light believing."

                "That I speak I know.
And more I tell thee. From thy sin shall grow
A monstrous evil. For Morgause shall bear
A son to thee, whose base and envious will,
Through tortuous plots, and deeds iniquitous,
Shall wreck thy realm at last. For this prepare
Thy soul through prosperous years."

                "This tale of ill,
If surely to thy proof the past be thus,
And such black sequel in the future lie,
Why tell me not before, or now too late?"

"I would that heart be thine to counter fate,
Which was not mine to alter. Even I,
For mine own self, a coming doom may fear,
And yet more fear to change it."

                        "As thou wilt.
Yet to the burden of incestuous guilt,
Unweening though it were, I will not bend
Without the baring of full proof."

                        "To find
Such proof is simple. Hear Sir Anton's tale,
When I release him from the oath he swore,
Or call thy mother from the heights of Gore,
- Those crag-built towers which never foe shall scale -
Where, with her youngest born (excepting thee),
Queen Morgan, doth she pensive bide, as one
Who stands aside from life; whose life is done."

Sir Anton came, and Merlin charged him: "Once
I tied thee straitly by an oath which bound
Thy lips to silence. Now I bid thee tell."

"That will I freely. Uther bade me take
A babe not mine beneath my roof to dwell,
That thus should be a nameless safety found
For one who else might die by violence,
If left uncovered in rebellious days."

"That child perchance was I, perchance was Kay."

"Then, by God's verdict, had the sword been Kay's!"

Believing, yet the smallest doubt to stay,
He sent such missive to Igraine as bought
Her soon appearance. At her side there came
Queen Morgan, who the powers of Hell could tame
To work her bidding. So the fearful said.
And none could doubt that to her use she bent
The viewless virtues earth and air have bred,
As neither men require, nor God had meant.

Loyal was she not to her lord, nor he
Believed it ever. Lover none was hers
Of constant faith, nor such she sought, for she
Was lustful, changeful, and incontinent.
Heedless of all, her wanton ways she went
As one no ruths restrained, no laws compelled.
And if, through all the evil course she held
She yet her bond with Urience half sustained,
Light was the price she gave for that she gained
In name, and refuge of the towers of Gore.
And if King Urience took and asked no more,
What loss was his her lustful moods to share?
What gain to seek for that which was not there?

On Arthur now, with glances darkly bright
She gazed, and heard a tale that long she knew.
Eyes with no sister's love but hate alight
Were hers, Pendragon's wile-born child to view.
'His father,' so she thought. 'My father slew.
Mine shall be vengeance wrought by devious ways
He shall not guess.' And those sweet-seeming eyes
Were lifted to him, as fair dawn may rise
While the near storm its gathered clouds delays.

Then hardly Ulfius spake: "So strait a vow
Hath held me these long years, that naught I said
Of all I knew. But that is ended now.
And this, that bitter silence long hath bred,
Must now be spoken. All our crowding woes
Had been averted, and King Arthur's right
Allowed and stablished in the whole world's sight,
Had Queen Igraine his birth declared."

                        "Fair knight,"
The king made answer, "of your wrath beware.
Few of there of my court such words would dare;
And none who shall with light impunity
Traduce her. With a mother's claim on me
Thine own words dower her."

                        "Lord, my liege, I say
No more than truth requires and knighthood may.
Through all thy years with hopeless eyes I saw
The land disordered; and the mortal war
Thy proclamation made. Had true men known
Thou wert Pendragon's heir, their strength had grown
So largely round thee that the sound of strife
We had not heard, or else the factious few
Were wind-blown leaves upon the gale of war.
But while men faltered on a doubt unsure,
Either they lagged a loyal sword to draw,
Or joined the rabble of thy foes.... For me,
I speak the things I knew, the fault I see,
And will for naught abate it."

                        "Gentle knight,"
Answered Igraine, "a woman's strength is mine,
Unfit the temper of thy sword to try.
Yet not so friendless nor so false am I
That all of Urience' or of Arthur's court
Should let thy gage for long unlifted lie.

"But I would answer in a gentler way.
Thou art indignant for a kingdom's woe,
Not causeless, yet, if more than most you know,
You know not all. You know that Merlin's wile
Betrayed my honour, that a babe I bore,
Perchance to Uther, but I know no more
Than that by night in unsuspected guile
Of magic caught, I as my lord received
Another, and Duke Gorlois lay the while
Slain in strong battle, eight sure leagues away.

"So much we know; and likely more you may
Of who that babe concealed, as did not I.
But this you know not, that my word I plight
To Uther, not to ask or seek or say
Aught of it; for its larger safety lay
In that conceal had Merlin urged. Whereby
I could not surely solve, though hope I might,
What meant the advent of a nameless king."

And Ulfius answered: "Reasone